The Vatican Rip

CHAPTER 9

'I saved your life, Enrico,' Anna said, wading into ninety square yards of pizza, a horrible sight. 'From Carlo.'

'Who the hell's Carlo?'

'Look back.'

We were walking at a slow pace away from the Angelo, the great circular castle by the Tiber. We had crossed the bridge and just turned left down the Coronali. A tangle of narrow streets was beginning, the kind I had yet to see in Rome. Anna was clearly at home here, never needing to check direction.

Behind us the youngish bloke was leaning against the wall of a barber's shop, cleaning his nails with a stiletto.

'That 1951 Bogart is yours, I take it?'

Anna cackled. 'That's Carlo. He wanted to spit you.'

'Good gracious,' I said politely.

'He's armed,' she said mischievously.

'His sort always is.'

She fell about at that. 'You're great. This way, Enrico.'

We dived to the right and started going slightly uphill. The streets were no more than alleys hereabouts. A lovely aroma pervaded my nostrils and I started to quiver.

Furniture varnish. Several small antique shops, of remarkable elegance for such a crummy-looking district, were dotted in the nooks and crannies of the cobbley labyrinth.

Carlo was following, three parts sloshed and weaving from side to side. You have to laugh.

'Visit the Vatican again?' she croaked as we trotted up the alley.

'Me? No. Why should I?'

She rolled in the aisles at this as well. I found myself getting narked at the old Jessie.

And the spectacle of her ravaged senile face smeared with grease did nothing for me, except make me heave.

'That's no answer.' She laughed so much I had to bang her shoulders to get her breathing again. As soon as her colour came back she assaulted her'pizza again. It was horrible. All she needed was some knitting and a guillotine. 'And you've been following me all day.'

The old gamp had me there. 'Actually, I'm strapped.'

'Broke, eh? Get dipped?'

I waited coldly for her paroxysm of hilarity to end. She had to hold on to the doorway of a small antiques shop to recover.

'Yes. By you, you old bitch. I want it back.'

'Me? What a terrible accusation!'

Her eyes were gleaming behind her specs. I turned for half a look.

Carlo was closing slowly, every inch real menace. Doubtless Anna had given him some signal because he held his knife hand at that loose angle which did not alter as he moved, a real giveaway.

Other than us the alley was empty. There was a small boozer further along and a couple of antique furniture shops and some place crammed with ecclesiastical vestments. I could see a preoccupied browser or two in one of the antique shops.

Somewhere nearby an electrical sander hummed. Maybe this was the right time and place.

I said, 'Hand it over, Anna. My money.'

'You try to riddle me? On my own doorstep? Brutto!'

I fetched her one then, only lightly because of her age, but enough to shut her mouth while I lifted her handbag from the basket. This goon Carlo was a real comic, hissing dramatically and narrowing his eyes as he came with his knife weaving sinister patterns in front of him. By then I was just too tired to bugger about. You can't blame me. I'd had a rotten two days.

I slid my left arm into the basket for a shield and gave him a double prod—the shield at his knife and my instep in his balls. My right knee caught under his chin as he oofed forward, then it was only a matter of kicking a couple of his ribs in while he slumbered gently on the cobbles.

Anna was staring in astonishment, holding her cheek as I teased out her money. I tossed her the handbag.

'Here, love. Buy a pizza.'

'You bastard. That's my money.'

So much for Carlo, I thought. 'It's not. It's mine.'

'Have you killed him?'

'Carlo? No. He'll just not play the tuba for a week or two.'

She was just drawing breath for a scream when I grabbed her and stifled it.

'Listen, you octogenarian conner,' I gritted. I'm as hard as nails with geriatrics. 'I've lost my passport and air ticket, been dipped by you, been forced from my comfortable hotel, had a friend killed, got stranded, and got jumped by your threepenny nerk who's too cockhanded to blow his own nose. I've had enough, hear? Enough.'

I released her and took off. I'd reached the end of the alley by the time she started screaming. Like a fool, I had assumed the old devil would only be able to manage a senile mumble but she put up a wail like the QE 2. Bloody hell, I thought, and in sudden panic hurtled along a few zigzaggy alleys until I came out into the Piazza Navona, a place I recognized from the famous pictures in the little guidebook I'd owned until this morning. I subsided in a chair on the pavement outside a restaurant to get my breath.

Well, somehow I'd messed up the chances of having Anna as a potential ally, but at least I had a bit of my own money back. In any case she was a doubtful quantity, and her sidekick Carlo scored a definite minus. I hoped I was better off, but didn't feel it.

* * *

I celebrated my recovered wealth with a quick nosh and a glass or two of white wine, and felt much better. It was that which gave me courage to ring Marcello's number. My hand was shaking.

'Hello?' A man's voice, with that practised flintiness from a lifetime of encountering misery. A copper.

In the background a woman's awful keening was just audible, some bird realizing she was alone now with two kids in a hostile world. I put the receiver down quickly in case calls were being traced. I desperately needed to ask who Marcello had contacted between the last time we'd spoken and six o'clock this morning when he'd been flung to his death in the Colosseum.

I could guess, though. The one person Marcello and I had in common was Arcellano, the hoodlum with enough aggro to waste a bloke like Marcello simply as a warning to me. Well, I felt warned all right.

Settling up with the waiter, there was no longer any doubt in my mind. Arcellano wanted the rip attempted. And by me. After what I'd seen of the Vatican I knew bloody well there was no way anybody on earth could pull it off. A million to one I'd be collared in the act, which must also be what Arcellano wanted—seeing he'd done me over, threatened murder and then finally committed that ultimate atrocity. God knows what I'd done to deserve all this.

But deep within me as I waited for my change there smouldered the small beginnings of a fire which I recognized with dismay.

If I tried the rip and got nicked, at least I'd know what the hell Arcellano really was up to. But what if I pulled it off? I'd not only know—I'd have Arcellano nailed. I'd have the priceless antique he wanted. Either way I could call the tune and make the bastard dance. The only way to reach Arcellano was pull the Vatican rip.

It was the thought of nailing Arcellano that did it, made me walk on air. I couldn't think of nailing a nicer bloke.

I'd do the rip all right.